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hammered at the intervention

I was hammered

at the intervention

drunk on a

bourbon bender

–walking in

at first light of day

into a

crowded room

crammed with the pious

the teetotalers,

the caffeine junkies

the newly saved

the members of the clergy

the neglected son

the vindictive daughter

the condescending,

next door stoop sitters

and

the supercilious shrew

from the paint store

who’d dropped in

to watch the mop up

to see the boss

meet his match

ungloved at last

there to see the

New Reality unveiled

when the old bastard

finally gets his

and to watch

(happily)

as he’s driven away

where Jim Beam

can’t find him

and when it is time

I clear my throat

and carefully construct

a most eloquent

rendition of the facts

at the end of which

I wish Russell well

in his recovery.

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Thursday thoughts on writing, falling and Julia Vinograd

The great poet, Julia Vinograd, the “Bubble-Lady” of Berkley, noted in an interview that was published last year, that writing poetry, when it works, “…is a lot like flying.” Because, when it doesn’t work, it is a “…lot like falling”. Ms Vinograd, who has been writing poetry since late 50’s, and is the author of no less than 59 books of verse, should certainly know something about the creative process involved in writing a poem. I am thinking of her words today as I peruse a folder on the hard drive of my laptop called poems_unfin. These poems are ones that I started but didn’t finish. They remain unfinished, not because I do not have the wherewithal to complete them, but because the process was becoming, as Ms Vinograd says, a lot like falling. Anyone who has written anything for public consumption (poem, short story, novel, blog post, etc.) knows the feeling, and when you are falling you know it.

Poetry projects, I think, are particularly vulnerable to rapid abandonment due to the very short runway they allow the author. The type of poems that I enjoy writing (and reading) are typically in the vicinity of 550 – 1300 words – and that is not a lot of room for error. Compared to say, a 30,000 word novella, a typical poem does allow you a lot of space to say what you want to say, so you’ve either got to say it quickly and say it very well, or just forget about it. Unlike novels, short stories, or even non-fiction work, there isn’t another chapter to distract you when your motivation drags.

It is worthwhile to note that there are a good many more poems in my poems_unfin folder that reside in my poems_COMPLETE folder. For this reason, often I find myself returning to my unfinished work and giving it another go, but I will be honest, usually it doesn’t work that way. Some poems must remain unwritten until the chemistry between subject and writer comes together and the poem takes flight. Sometimes, well most times really, that doesn’t happen.

So this is what I am thinking about this afternoon at EEOTPB. In addition to several poems that have made it into my poems_COMPLETE folder, I plan to post more about the writing process, and what mine is like, but more importantly I hope to hear from you, about you. I have communicated with some fine poets and writers since I have been blogging here and I’d like to know what makes it all come together for you. Is it a particular time of day, a certain chair, a certain pen, a laptop in the park, or an old Smith-Corona in the basement? Do you prefer classical music playing on the stereo (headphones, yes or no), jazz, kick ass rock, or maybe you prefer stone cold silence. How about drunk or sober (don’t laugh as many have tried both. For me the latter is the only way to go, but the great Charles Bukowski preferred the former, although he did confess to writing a few good poems while in the clutches of a ‘black hangover’).

In closing, I shall link to one of my favorite poems by Ms Vinograd here.

W E Patterson's avatar

My guitar

I bought a guitar

for six bucks

from Santiago

my neighbor from Columbia

who was selling everything

in his overstocked garage

so he could buy a used Hyundai

for his daughter

for her seventeenth birthday

“You need a lawnmower, Sport?”

he yells to me

as I walk my dog past his house

at half past nine on Saturday morning

“such a beautiful machine,”

I shake my head

in terror at the thought

of mowing the goddamned grass

he goes on:

“You need hedge clippers?…three bucks!!

CHEAP…amigo”

fuck the hedge I say to myself

so

I let the dog pee in the bush beside

his house…

then it comes:

“hey…you want paint?”

but I tell him

I hate painting

and I’ve come to like

the lime green paint

that’s peeling off of my house

in strips…

(it’s good for five more years

maybe more)

then he tells me he has:

a Portuguese Bible,

a convection oven,

a five ton floor jack,

a ten ton box

of romance novels,

and a Henry Hill, autographed

ice pick

plus

snow tires for my Subaru

and

the third season of Dallas

on VHS…

then he tells me about

the guitar?

 

so I bought it — for six bucks and I took it home

…the guitar

and for two and a half hours

I sat on the back porch with the dog

and put my bare feet on the railing

and pretended I was Ernest Tubb

singing

Walking the Floor Over You

plucking at the strings with my good hand

until my wife came home

and reminded me

that I don’t

know how to play

the guitar.

 

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bus to Laramie?

I used to walk, to the mill
where I worked
trodding:
six blocks up Kandleman
to sixth, past the Tremont Bar
where a hooker named Janie
would shout
from the bar stool nearest the door
on summer mornings
when the doors were open
and you’d smell disinfectant
from the night’s ‘mop-out’
mixed with the stench of old beer
and cigarette smoke
and charcoal
and she’d act as if she knew me so well:
“hey, Big Shot, come on back here,
play me some music on the juke
…and buy us round,”
but I’d laugh at her
and I’d laugh at the others who were there
for role call
at the seven AM opener
and I would rush past them
black lunch box in hand
up Charleston — uphill to the end
breathing hard…
to the Trailways station
where the grey behemoths slept
at idle…
…Laramie…
…Salt Lake…
…Billings…
read the destination signs
and sometimes I would wave
to the people aboard,
and imagine them running
from
missing husbands
demeaning jobs
or their vanished lover…
…you know, the unvarnished one
who’d stayed long enough
to make a mess…
..like the one that she’d
married far too young
(six weeks shy of her nineteenth birthday)
to the old wino, who cared
too much for cards
and drink
and
smug introspection
and
cowardly destruction
and you think now
that
perhaps
she is in Laramie
wondering what the hell
had taken her
so long
to leave.

 

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why I don’t cruise

my friend Mimi says
she’s leaving town
and tells me that she’s going cruising
NOT in the Volvo
I say to her
not tonight – please
because it’s in no condition
to be on the street

and neither are you

dear Mimi
for that matter
but she laughs and
we order more wine
(Bordeaux)
and she says she’s
cruising to
the Caribbean
to Nassau
and St. Kitts
and Barbuda
Barbuda?? What the hell??
Where the hell??
I tell her that you couldn’t get me
on a boat, for any price
Because
I can’t swim
I have scanty identification
I am of uncertain national origin
I’ve been investigated
and I have:
pale complexion
unpaid parking tickets
in the city of Margate
a delicate constitution
and my night vision
is compromised
to say nothing of the fact
that
my second wife
depleted my savings
my MasterCard is rescinded
so therefore, I have no inclination
to gamble with
Norovirus
nor with
real estate agents from Paducah
or CPAs from White Plains
nor with
long winded Dallas day traders
who cruise
with their platinum haired
mistresses
and I refuse to
listen to the confused ramblings
of a misplaced heiress
in the throes of delirium tremens
so I shall remain here –
until proverbial hell
freezes —
and again I say to Mimi
I’ll remain ashore
my feet in the sand
my dry elbows on
polished teak
right here
until the Bamboo Bar runs dry.

 

W E Patterson's avatar

my last cigarette

last night I dreamed of you

wept for you, called out to you

but prayed fervently

that you would never

resurrect,

not you…

…you one hundred millimeter

mentholated bastard,

because I see you yet

in the last moments of

disintegration

your heinous life, snuffed

and ending in a bitter blue haze

that steams forth, as you lie

crippled beyond repair

your slender body

crushed and fragmented

into a cluster of a half dozen

tiny glowing cinders,

embers that gleam

like demons’ eyes

phosphorescent

and dying

as they devolve into ash

and join the others

in the black, hard-plastic ashtray

that sits beside a white, bone china mug…

“Patty’s Diner”

“Open all Nite”

“Since 1955”

it says on the mug

a mug that’s beside

(and slightly to the left of)

a plate of scrambled eggs

and overdone potatoes…

…the platter uneaten

as Charlie Pride sings

on the tablejuke

“Just Between You and Me”

and I declare that tonight

on April the eighteenth

nineteen hundred and eighty two

at ten thirty seven PM

we are officially over.

W E Patterson's avatar

beach day

oh, you habitual absentee

you flagrant devotee to the sun

to the sand, to the salt air

you – the steadfast student of the

Royal Tern and the Western Sandpiper

who dares to lie about your

mid-day, mid-week

forbidden trysts

upon the sands of Pompano Beach

your face buried in the folds

of your Polar Fleece solar blanket

your golden hair scattered – unfettered

across your bronze, barren shoulders,

your lavender bikini askew and terribly

undone in a lone act of worship

to the Sun god

and you say to me that

the damned Bookshop deserves to be shuttered

because today…

…no one requires another second hand

romance novel by Nora Roberts, nor

Tom Clancy thriller,

nor used-boorish-business-book by

a self absorbed New York

billionaire

nor a moldy volume of earthy poems

by some

sodden old New England poet

nor a slim volume of

waggish verse

penned by a decrepit old beatnik

nor a magazine with prattling

celebrity scuttlebutt –

for

as you tell me so often –

and quite gently

that our days are measured

often in inches

and not in yards.

W E Patterson's avatar

the defiant

I watch them in the afternoon

when the days of spring

bend close to summer

and I see them, in banter

flocked together

at the Bamboo Bar

in scuffed sandals and

Bermuda shorts and

nondescript dark glasses

drinking rum punch from

pink plastic cups

…they’re…

unruffled and warming themselves

seeking relief from the worst sorts

of high end dislocation

and seeking solace in diluted drinks and

in the company

of those of a feather

they’re the last of the snowbirds

…the ones who hang on, far too long

waiting…

for word from Grosse Pointe

from Upper Saddle River

from Cambridge

and the far shores

of the Delaware

to tell them that the final drabs of winter

have escaped

and cross-pollination is afoot

as the first daffodils of spring shoot

from the ground of

Chestnut Hill,

and Cherry Hill

and Beacon Hill.

and the pink dogwoods

are abloom in Brigantine,

and in Sea Gate, Brooklyn

And although the update is clear

it is unenforceable, and perchance

totally ignored

by these reluctant birds

the defiant and liberated.

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midnight at the Edsall Road Denny’s

You,

dressed in your corporate finery

your laptop computer buried beneath

your legs

your sixteen hours at Labor

just another day

and my disaster

at Manassas

hidden in the bowels

of a locked hard drive

in the password protected

fucked totally

world of the Governmental

warlords

but:

together we push

our bodies toward each other

in the red faux leather booths

in the expression of final

Governmental Approval

all denied, then security

granted another day

amid the Beltway masses

half-assed coffee with creamers

pies with ice cream

scrambled eggs and

fries

on the side

workers from the night shift

poking their heads

around the corner

wondering if there is hope

in this  land

and we tell them

there’s not.

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lost travelers all

“how did I get here?”

such words of desperation

are spoken so often

softly

in the first half-light of day

or harshly,

in the aftermath,

of a knockdown fight

sometimes spoken whimsically

but other times

uttered with grave reverence

to the dire consequences

and the inevitable

unpleasant results

5 words which are:

murmured by the infirm

mumbled by the forgotten

shouted by the incarcerated

slurred by the inebriated

cried tearfully by the lost

whispered by the humbled

you know…

those who:

were momentarily, and

with very little ceremony

given over to reckless

pursuits, in the dark of night

5 words spoken usually

as the color of the new day

pours across the rose colored sheets

of the Waycroft Motel

or lightens the sky above

the White Sands Motor Lodge

or heats the cheek-side desert sand

of the El Paso train yard

or tumbles into the alley behind

the Side Pocket Saloon

or causes the bars

of the Clark County Detention Center

to cast long parallel shadows

down Cell block B

or whitewashes the corridors

of Jackson Memorial

where it

brings the hope of new day

to the victim of

last night’s bike crash on I -95

“how did I get here?”

sobs the girl at the Paducah Greyhound station

Kleenex tissue in her right hand

ticket to Albert Lea in her left